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CHAPTER ELEVEN

I Go Back to the West

And that is the end of Gatsby’s story. After Gatsby’s death, I couldn’t live on Long Island any longer. I wanted to go back to the West. I wanted to go back to where we all came from. I wanted to return to the place where I felt happiest.

I saw Tom Buchanan once more in New York before I left. When he stopped and held out his hand, I put my hands behind my back.

‘What’s the matter, Nick’ he asked. ‘Won’t you shake hands with me?’

‘You know what I think of you,’ I answered. ‘What did you say to Wilson that afternoon?’

Tom stared at me and I knew I had guessed right. Tom took hold of my arm.

‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I told Wilson the truth. He came into our house with a gun. He would have killed one of us if I hadn’t told him who owned the yellow car.

‘And why shouldn’t I have told him’ Tom went on. ‘That Gatsby made a fool of you and of Daisy, too. But he was tough and he killed Myrtle like a dog!’

There was nothing I could say. I knew the truth, but I could never tell it. Tom had done what he wanted to do - got rid of Gatsby.

Tom and Daisy were rich, careless people. They took what they wanted and destroyed what they didn’t need. Then they went away, leaving others to clear up the mess.

Gatsby’s house was empty when I left, and the grass had grown very long. On my last night, I stood in the garden, thinking about Gatsby and his dream.

Gatsby had believed in his dream. He had followed it and nearly made it come true.

Everybody has a dream. And, like Gatsby, we must all follow our dream wherever it takes us.

Some unpleasant people became part of Gatsby’s dream. But he cannot be blamed for that.

Gatsby was a success, in the end, wasn’t he?